


Antiphon

by RPGgirl514



Category: Diablo III
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Canonical Character Death, Courage, Fellatio, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Love Denied, M/M, Male Friendship, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Character Death, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Minor Character, Pining, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is called, one must answer.  Andrew Rumford learns this lesson well when he is suddenly promoted to Captain of the Guard in New Tristram. His new life is further complicated by the arrival of an enigmatic and frustrating crusader, Galadrius Cole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are Saved!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly AU retelling of Act I, with Captain Rumford and Haedrig Eamon supporting my male crusader, Galadrius Cole, in his search for the fallen star. I liked Rumford the first time I met him, how he stepped up into the captain of the guard position even though he was just a farmer. He had a huge responsibility thrust upon him, even though he didn’t want it and wasn’t prepared for it, and I wanted to explore that a little more. That said, events of the first act play out a little differently in this story, but ultimately New Tristram meets the same fate and the crusader moves on to Caldeum as planned.

_**antiphon (n.)** \- a verse or song, chanted or sung in a “call and response” pattern_

Andrew Rumford thought he might collapse from exhaustion – _how long had he been at his post? Twenty hours? Longer?_ He could feel it with every breath – the tight ache in his chest as his lungs threatened to cave in on themselves, the deep, penetrating weariness that permeated his joints. He could barely lift the battered mace he’d scrounged from one of the living dead long ago. His swings were getting sloppy, and if he wasn’t careful, one of these corpses would take his head off. Rumford kept telling himself _this is the last one, this is the last one,_ but there was no end to them. As soon as one was cut down, two more would climb up out of the ravine bordering Overlook Road.

“Fall back!” he cried, bashing a walking corpse in the head with his mace and sending decaying flesh flying. Rumford and the two guardsmen at the gate took cover behind a makeshift barricade while the archers on the platforms above them picked off the rest of the wave.

The noise of battle quieted save for the labored breathing of Rumford and his men. He peered over the barricade. The dead were at rest – at least for now.

Rumford stood to take up his post, reaching down to pull another guardsman to his feet. The captain was struck from behind by a blow that sent him staggering forward, taking down the others with him in a cacophony of armor and weapons. Pain radiated from a point between his shoulder blades. Breathing sent pain shooting through his chest. The archers above shouted commands amongst themselves. Rumford rolled over and threw his arms up to defend himself in vain as the skeleton raised its mace again.

Even as Rumford shied away from the blow, something charged into his field of vision. An enormous shield crashed into Rumford’s attacker. The guard-captain caught a glimpse of an inverted gold pitchfork, embossed upon a white field, before he squeezed his eyes shut as splinters of musty bone showered over him.

“We are saved!” cried the guardsmen, “we are saved!”

Rumford got to his feet, shaking, to meet his savior. The man removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm to reveal a wide, stern face atop broad shoulders. His head was completely shaven, though a short growth of reddish-brown stubble dusted his scalp and jaw. His armor shone, polished to a burnished gleam in the dim light of the flickering lanterns along Overlook Road. The newcomer wore the durable cloth bases so favored by warriors of the faith, dyed a vivid crimson. _A crusader,_ thought Rumford. He’d never met one – he’d only ever heard tales about them.

“I owe you my life, sir,” said Rumford, holding out his hand. “Thank you. I’m Andrew Rumford, captain of the guard . . . or what’s left of it.”

The crusader’s smile was warm, and it softened his features considerably. He gripped Rumford’s forearm in a gesture of solidarity. “You are welcome, though it was the least I could do,” said the crusader. “My name is Galadrius Cole. I am a crusader of the Zakarum faith, and I come seeking the fallen star.”

“Ah, right then,” said Rumford. “You’ll want to talk to Leah in the Slaughtered Calf. She was there in the cathedral with her uncle the night the star fell.”

Galadrius frowned. “You look exhausted. How long have you been at your post, captain?”

Rumford looked away, embarrassed. Was his fatigue that obvious? “I couldn’t say.”

“I will go and speak with Leah. But I will be back. A body needs sleep, captain. The dead have no such disadvantage.”

“That’s really not necessary –”

But the mysterious crusader had already passed through the gates on his way to the inn.

Rumford didn’t know how long he had dozed off when Galadrius’ hand landed on his shoulder and startled him awake. “Do you have a place to stay, captain?”

“Wha–?” Rumford said blearily, blinking away sleep. “Oh – I’ve been sleeping in the barracks as of late, when there’s a bed open. My farm was overrun with the dead weeks ago.”

Galadrius held out his hand and dropped a key into Rumford’s lap. “Take my room at the inn. I will take your post.”

Rumford wanted to protest, but he was so tired he couldn’t find it in him to argue. His fingers curled around the key. Galadrius nodded at him. “I will come to wake you in the morning, captain. We will discuss the star then. But now you must sleep.” He nodded once and turned away, the planes of his face hardened by the shadows. Rumford hadn’t been in the guard long, but he knew when he was dismissed.

By the time Rumford stumbled into the inn, he fell onto the bed without even bothering to remove his boots. The lumpy straw mattress was an improvement over his accommodations as of late. He was asleep in minutes.

Back at the gates of New Tristram, Galadrius Cole looked solemnly out at the surrounding area. It had started to rain, a miserable, misty drizzle that seeped through the cracks in the guards' armor as easily as smoke and chilled them to the bottoms of their boots. The other two guards on duty grumbled amongst themselves, each sneaking envious looks at the crusader, who seemed wholly unaffected by the damp chill.

“How d’you suppose he gets his armor to glow like that, eh?”

“He’s a crusader. It’s his ‘inner Light.’”

The first guard snorted softly. “Right, and I suppose his ‘inner Light’ keeps the rain off ‘im as well?”

The second guard shrugged. Galadrius gave no indication he had heard them, so when he spoke, his low baritone made them both jump.

“The Light is in everyone, my friends, and I assure you, I am as vulnerable to the elements as any man.”

They glanced at each other, a bit shamefaced at being caught out, which seemed to amuse Galadrius. His chuckle was brontide, barely discernable from the thunder in the distance.

“Men distrust what they do not understand. My ways may seem strange to you, but I am only here to see about the fallen star and destroy any evil that gets in my way.”

“The dead rising, walking as the living?” The first guard snorted again, though there was little humor in it. “Can’t get much more evil than that.”

“Indeed,” Galadrius agreed grimly. 

* * *

 

Rumford stumbled down to the common room of the Slaughtered Calf, his untied boot laces nearly tripping him up on the stairs. He was still clothed in his tunic and breeches from the day before, but he felt more rested than he had in weeks. The crusader raised a hand to him from a table near the fire, his scarlet cloak draped over the back of his chair to dry. Rumford sat down just as the barmaid delivered two plates of fat sausage links, cheese, and two heels of toasted bread. Ravenous, Rumford devoured the meat and cheese before a guilty pang reminded him he had cut his own men down to half-rations just days ago.

“You talk to Leah, then?”

“Yes, Leah has given me enough information to proceed with my search.” Galadrius chewed his food much more slowly and methodically than the hungry guard-captain had, and he was quiet for a long while. The only indication the crusader gave to his long shift at the gate were the shadows under his eyes. “You slept well?”

Grudgingly, Rumford nodded. “I hope Hamish and Larch didn’t give you much trouble.”

“They are good men,” Galadrius said. “Though I’m sure you are already aware, as their captain.”

“A fortnight ago we were peers,” Rumford said, his lip curling, though whether it was the bitterness of his words or his ale the crusader couldn’t be sure.

“You wear your new mantle well, then. They naturally look to you to lead them. How did you come to be captain of the guard?”

Rumford swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, and he took a swig of ale to wet it. “My predecessor, Captain Daltyn, led a patrol into the ruins after the star fell and the dead rose. I was the only one who came out alive. All of them, slaughtered like animals. I am no stranger to death – it's a part of life. But those men – good, honest men – they died horribly.” Rumford sighed, banishing the memories of blood and bile back to the darkest corners of his mind. “I volunteered to help because it seemed the right thing to do. But I’m no leader of men.”

“You were called, and you answered.”

“That’s a simple thing for you to say – you were born to fight monsters like the risen dead. Me, I’m just a farmer.”

Galadrius furrowed his brow but said nothing. He drained the remaining ale from his tankard before he stood up and fastened the scarlet cloak around his shoulders. “I am going to the cathedral today,” he announced. “I will return in a few days.”

Rumford rose to see him off, and felt oddly dismayed. “Thank you for the meal, my friend. If I can’t persuade you to stay here, keep your eyes open.” He smiled. “It has been invigorating fighting alongside you. I would hate to see you across the battlefield among the ranks of the dead.”

“I cannot think of anything more distasteful,” Galadrius agreed. “I trust you will cut me down without hesitation if such a thing comes to pass?”

Rumford gave a curt nod. “Likewise.”

He watched the crusader’s silhouette disappear through the doorway, illuminated by the dawn. Rumford debated a moment before wrapping the two toasted heels of bread to take with him as he returned to his post at the gate. Hamish and Larch had fallen asleep with their backs propped against the two lantern posts, their swords across their laps in a slack grip.

“Oy!” Rumford bellowed. Hamish and Larch jerked awake with startled cries, the warm bundles of toast catching them in the face and falling into their laps.

“Barracks,” Rumford said, and the guards scrambled to their feet with clumsy salutes. He said not another word as he took up his stance before the gate.

Hamish and Larch glanced at the toast, then each other. “Captain’s got us on half-rations,” Larch said, hefting the bread. “The hell is this?”

“Breakfast?” Hamish shrugged and stuffed half of it into his mouth, abandoning his manners. “Eat it ‘fore he changes ‘is mind.”


	2. The Return

The crusader did not return the next day, nor the day after that. A week passed. Rumford had nearly given him up for dead, and though he was not surprised, he did feel a twinge of regret that the world had lost as good a man as that. Rumford wondered idly if Galadrius had suffered, or worse – if he might one day recognize the rotting scarlet tabard upon an undead foe.

But he had little time to ponder the matter. There were rations to be divvied up, orders to be given, and weapons to be repaired. As Galadrius might have said, “The crusade goes ever on.” It was this notion that found Rumford driving a horse-drawn cart into the heart of New Tristram, bearing an eclectic mix of weapons for repair.

Rumford heard the rhythmic clank of iron on steel long before the smith himself came into sight. He was out front of his forge, hunched over an anvil, pounding a hammer over a blade. The sheen of sweat on his brow only made the premature lines of his face more pronounced. Rumford jumped down off the cart to greet him.

“Haedrig,” he said, clasping the smith’s forearm. “It’s been too long, old friend. How are you?”

Haedrig wiped his face with a dirty rag, leaving a dark streak across his forehead. Now that he was closer, Rumford wished he hadn’t asked. He noticed the shadows under Haedrig’s eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the drawn tightness at the corners of his mouth. Once, this man was rarely seen without a smile. Now it seemed he would never do so again. “I’ve been better. What can I do for the new captain of the guard?”

Rumford gestured back at the cart. The horse was pulling up clods of sweetgrass and chewing noisily.

"Horse needs shoeing. Weapons need sharpening."

"I can shoe the horse now, while yeh wait. As for the weapons . . . sorry, Andrew. Full up. Yeh’ll have to wait nigh a fortnight; I cannae get to it ‘fore then."

Rumford’s jaw dropped. "A fortnight? That’s far too long!"

Haedrig shrugged, his expression sour as he fetched his farriery tools. "Me apprentice ran off, so I'm on me own now, and they've got me caring for the wounded in what little time I have to meself. City coffers are keeping me belly full, but at what cost? Tell you what, yeh can pick up yer iron piecemeal if that works better for yeh. Come back in a few days; I'll get as much done as I can. No promises, though. Not even for you, Andrew."

"Tell me what I can do, then, to lighten your load," Rumford said.

Haedrig sighed. "Can ye spare a man to watch o’er the sick and the wounded? Me wife was, ‘fore she took ill herself. I've been stretched thin covering her work and me own."

"I'll do it myself," Rumford said.

“Ye’re a good man, Andrew,” Haedrig said gratefully.

Rumford shrugged. “We’ve got to help each other out if we’re to survive this mess. You’d do the same for me.”

“Aye, and more.” A short while later, the cart-horse was freshly shod and Haedrig began unloading the weapons from the cart, tossing them onto a rack with haphazard care. Rumford came around to help and soon the cart was empty.

“I’ll check in on Mira on my rounds,” Rumford said. “Thank you again, Haedrig.”

“Be safe, Andrew.” Haedrig turned away and picked up the first blade to sharpen.

* * *

Rumford completed his rounds, loading the cart with rations to be distributed at the barracks. He felt guilty at the meager stack of crates, filled with little more than stale bread and moldering produce. It wasn’t enough for all of them, not when they spent half their time fighting for their lives. Each day more of them fell, and the next they faced their brothers-in-arms, husks of what they once were, across the battlefield.

He passed the makeshift infirmary, and was concerned to see it dark and still. He did not often make it to this corner of New Tristram, as far as it was from the barracks and the gate to prevent the spread of disease. The red lantern by the door remained unlit. Rumford wondered if the driving rain had put it out.

He knocked upon the door, which opened easily under his fist. For his own peace of mind he drew his sword and kept it low at his side. His cautious nature had kept him alive on Captain Daltyn’s patrol; he hoped it would serve him the same now.

“Hello?”

But his only response was the echo of an empty house. Rumford continued, peeking into the large hall that had been laid with rows of cots. No one greeted him save the howl of the wind.

Rumford did not fancy checking the cellar, which was accessible from both the stairs to his left and the exterior of the house. He suspected if the injured and infirm had turned, they would retreat into the darkest hole they could find – it was their nature. If he went in alone he would not stand a chance. He elected to report his findings to Haedrig and return with help. Either way, this did not bode well for Mira. Rumford left the house, his spine prickling with unease, and he did not sheathe his sword until he was nearly back at the forge.

Haedrig took the news in his same stoic way. Rumford’s heart went out to his friend. He reached out to clasp Haedrig’s shoulder, briefly, and the smith’s hammer paused in its low arc.

“Give me a couple of days, Haedrig. I’ll take care of this. I’ve got a friend who can help – a crusader. He’s out at the cathedral, but he should be back soon. If Mira is still alive, we’ll find her.”

Haedrig responded with a grunt and a half-shrug. “No sense in false hope, Andrew.”

Well, the captain had nothing to say to that.

As short-manned as they were, Rumford fell into long days of gate duty once more. He dozed off at his post more than once, only to be startled awake by the clash of steel on steel, real and imagined. Lack of sleep and proper food played tricks on his weary mind, and on several occasions Rumford thought he glimpsed a savior in bright armor come to redeem them, just as Galadrius had a fortnight prior. Other times, his mind’s cruel eye showed him the crusader, as powerful in death as he had been in life, shield and armor stained red with blood that no longer pumped through living veins.

And there it was. The once-gleaming armor, dulled by blood and battle, staggering towards the gate. Rumford almost didn’t think it could be real, but it was.

“To arms!” Rumford called, but there was was no mistaking that familiar form for the dead. Galadrius was weary, injured, and worse for wear, but he was alive. His smile split his broad face with relief.

“Captain,” he said. “I cannot say what a comfort it is to see you once again.”

“At ease,” Rumford said, and his guards lowered their weapons. He let out a shaky laugh. “You’ve lost your helmet, my friend.”

“Indeed.”

“Did you find the fallen star?”

Galadrius nodded. “The story is not finished yet. In fact, I believe it is just beginning. But it can wait until I get a tankard of ale and a hot meal in my belly."

Rumford moved to the crusader's side; just in time, in fact, as Galadrius slumped against him. "Hold the gate!" he barked to his men, and helped his injured friend hobble to the Slaughtered Calf. He did not notice the silent stranger trailing behind.

Leah was waiting in the common room, spooning broth into a wizened widow's mouth with care. Her green eyes widened when she saw Rumford and Galadrius. Leah dropped the spoon. It clattered across the oak slab table, splashing her and the old woman with broth. With a hasty apology to her charge, she rushed to greet them.

"Galadrius! Captain – what's happened?"

Rumford shook his head grimly as he deposited Galadrius into a chair. "Not sure. He found the star, though. That's about all he's said since he got back."

Leah leaned over the crusader while Rumford went to find him something to eat.

"Galadrius?"

He waved her away. "Continue your ministrations; my wounds will keep."

Leah looked uncertain, but she did as she was bidden and returned to her table. Rumford returned with a bowl of wilted vegetable soup in one hand and two tankards of beer.

Galadrius fell to eating as if his last meal had been in this very tavern many days ago. He paused and used his spoon to prod a turnip lump. Rumford, who was sporting a rather enthusiastic layer of foam over his mustache, grimaced.

"It's not much," he admitted, swiping the back of his hand over his upper lip. "Most of our farms have been burnt to the ground, mine included. All's that's left is what's in folks' cellars, and what few trade caravans make it past those rotting bastards."

If Galadrius heard him, the only indication was the way his lips tightened at the corners. He scooped the turnip chunk up with a bit of gruel and continued eating like a ravenous dog.

Once he'd sopped up the last of the broth with a heel of bread, Galadrius looked marginally better. Leah had finished her task at hand and joined his table. She sat upon her hands and bounced her leg, setting the table to rattling, full to bursting with questions. Finally she couldn't take it anymore.

"Captain Rumford says you found the star. Did you find Uncle Deckard?"

His eyes were heavy as he nodded. "Alas, his wounds were too grievous. We bore him back on a litter. I performed his last rites myself.”

Leah's face crumpled. "No," she whispered. "No!" She struck her fist upon the table and bolted so quickly her chair overturned.

Captain Rumford and Galadrius watched her go. "She has suffered so much loss in her young life," Rumford lamented. "It is a wonder she can smile at all. What of the star?"

Galadrius shook his head through a mouthful of ale and beckoned to someone behind Rumford. "'Twas not a star at all, but a man."

And out of the shadows of the Slaughtered Calf emerged a solemn figure. He towered over the other patrons, and were the crusader, a tall man himself, to stand, the stranger would dwarf even he. The stranger was built in perfect, broad symmetry, like he'd been shaped by the hand of a god rather than born of a woman's womb. His skin was the rich color of fertile soil – the kind a farmer like Rumford would sell his soul to plow – but his eyes were a piercing, unnatural blue. Rumford shivered under his gaze. The stranger picked up Leah's vacated chair and sat down. Every movement he made was deliberate, like the dangerous grace of a cat as it stalked its prey. Something about him unsettled Rumford, not unlike the the way he felt around Galadrius. Not threatened, per se, but something about the stranger’s presence set his nerves on edge.

"A man?" Rumford asked, his mouth dry. "Then a very lucky one, at that. How does one survive such a fall?"

The stranger shrugged. "I do not remember."

"Nothing?"

"Not even his identity, I'm afraid," Galadrius said. "Although, a clue: as you can see, we ran into a bit of trouble on our journey, and he has proven himself quite adept with a blade."

Rumford quirked an eyebrow at the stranger, whose gaze did not waver from him. "Indeed. Well, things have happened in new Tristram since your departure – we will need every able sword arm we can get."

Galadrius frowned. "More risen dead?"

Rumford hummed through his teeth. "The infirmary. Those injured by the buggers are turning themselves. Haedrig Eamon, the smith in town, his wife was caring for them, but it's been several days and she hasn't come home. Haedrig, well, he's a friend. He asked if I would help him, but we don't have any idea what we'd be walking into!" The more Rumford said, the more agitated he became. Galadrius laid a hand on the guard-captain's sleeve.

"I will accompany you."

"But your wound –"

"I've felt the sting of duller blades," Galadrius said.

Rumford sighed, half-exasperated, half-relieved. "What does that even mean?" He laughed, and to his surprise, Galadrius did too.

"It means you could not stop me, friend, even if you wished."


	3. Grief

Galadrius spoke briefly with Bron the innkeep to arrange for the stranger’s lodgings. The newcomer's otherworldly blue eyes followed his every move with mild interest. Rumford fidgeted.

Galadrius insisted they depart for the forge at once, waving off Rumford’s protests over his injuries. Indeed, color was already returning to his cheeks and he did not favor his side as much as he had before. Rumford wondered, not for the first time, if Akarat spent all his time watching over reckless fools in plate armor.

The stranger did not join them, and for that, Rumford was relieved, although he admitted they could use all the help they could get. Haedrig hardly looked up upon their approach. He acknowledged their presence with a sigh, and when he spoke his words were low and clipped.

“I told yeh, it’ll take me awhile to mend yer blades, Andrew. Be patient.”

“Forget the weapons for a minute, Haedrig,” Rumford said, stepping forward. “I’ve brought someone to help us investigate the infirmary. Remember the crusader, the one I told you about?”

Galadrius spoke up, extending his hand. “Galadrius Cole, crusader of the Zakarum faith and friend to the people of New Tristram.”

Haedrig’s gaze shot up, setting the blade down on his workbench and folding his arms before him. “A crusader, eh? Is that right?”

“Indeed.”

“I’ve heard impossible things from Andrew here. Things no man is capable o’ doing.”

Galadrius met his eyes without flinching. “I am not just a man. I am a crusader.”

“If yeh think ye can just waltz into town and fix all of our problems, yeh’re out of yer thrice-damned mind.”

Galadrius shrugged. “Then we’ve no time to lose.”

Haedrig’s hard eyes softened, and he chuckled. “I like ‘im, Andrew. He's got balls.”

Galadrius felt he had just passed a test as the blacksmith’s beefy hand grasped his own.

“Alright. Enough lollygaggin’ around. Let’s go.”

It was all they could do to hurry after him. Haedrig stopped before the boarded-up infirmary, his breath escaping him in a cloud. The rain had stopped, but a chill fog had crept over the town. Autumn had settled in, and now it was slipping away, taking the leaves from the trees and the warmth of summer with it.

“Haedrig?” Rumford asked.

The blacksmith swallowed hard and slipped the hammer from his belt. “I cannae kill me own wife, Andrew. Not even if she’s become . . . one of them.”

“I’ve told you before,” Rumford said quietly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, my friend.”

Haedrig took a deep breath and exhaled all at once. His eyes were like steel. “Then in we go.”

The smith used his hammer to demolish the boards that had been crudely nailed over the makeshift hospital. Once inside, the three of them were overwhelmed by the stench of decaying flesh and mold – the damp autumn had not been kind to this house. They tied their handkerchiefs around their faces, for all the good it did. Rumford’s eyes watered, and he blinked the wetness away.

“Quiet,” Haedrig remarked.

“Too quiet,” Galadrius agreed.

“Look out!”

Rumford’s shout was the only warning they had. Haedrig dove to the side to avoid being impaled on a skeleton’s javelin. The smith crashed straight through the wall into the open room on the other side, where the sick and infirm once lay dying. Now their cots were empty, and the dead men themselves advanced upon him. Haedrig scrambled to his feet, swinging his hammer with the fluid strength imbued in him by his profession.

Rumford, for all his bluster about being just a farmer, held his own remarkably well. He parried the weak, clumsy blows of the risen dead. The corpse retched, and Rumford leapt back to avoid the splatter. By the look on his face he was very close to vomiting himself. Galadrius shoved him back toward his foe.

“They’re vulnerable post-emesis!” the crusader roared, bashing several at once with his shield. They bounced off, dazed, turning around and around as they searched for their next attack.

Rumford took advantage of what Galadrius had said and dealt the corpse a heavy blow, his boots skidding under him in the pools of slime upon the pitted floor. He caught himself, stepping upon the fallen’s head and splitting its skull with a crunch. Rumford winced, but continued on to the next enemy. He cut down the final foe in his corner and turned to help the others. Rumford saw the danger first and cried out.

“Haedrig, behind you!”

The blacksmith turned, catching the blow meant for his head upon his shoulder instead, sending him toppling ungracefully to the floor. His hammer crashed to the floor a few feet away. Haedrig gazed up at his attacker in shock and horror.

“Mira,” he said, his voice cracking to a whisper.

Mira raised the club again, her eyes milky and blank, framed by a curtain of lank dark hair. Her smooth porcelain skin, once the envy of the other village women, was now mottled by decay. Haedrig still saw her clearly in his mind’s eye, as beautiful as she was on their wedding day, as strong and kind and faithful as the day she had left their house bound for the infirmary and never returned. He could hear a dull roar far away and wondered what all the fuss was about. This was Mira Eamon, his wife. They’d found her, and now they could go home again.

Rumford was screaming as he rushed towards husband and wife. Galadrius was closer. The mace swung down as Galadrius took a knee over Haedrig’s prone form. He grunted as the spiked head struck the surface of his shield, the impact radiating up through his shoulder, his elbow tucked up against his chest. Galadrius stood up quickly, using his shield to lead into the charge.

Rumford dragged Haedrig away as Galadrius faced the petite and very dead Mira Eamon. He grimaced as he deflected her blows, brandishing his enormous sword.

“Don’t look, Haedrig,” Rumford said.

“I must,” the smith said, sitting up.

The crusader’s sword swung down. Mira crumpled. Haedrig moaned low in his throat and looked away.

“May the Light show you there is mercy, too, in death,” Galadrius said quietly. He stood up, his blade stained black with ichor, and pulled the cloth down from his face to address Haedrig.

“Forgive me. I am sorry you had to bear witness to such a thing.”

Haedrig’s jaw tightened. He got to his feet, cradling his injured arm against his chest, and stalked out without a word. Rumford retrieved his hammer and made to call out after him, but Galadrius stopped him.

“He is grieving, Captain. Best let him be for now.”

Rumford nodded and slipped the hammer into his own belt. Galadrius sheathed his sword and strapped his shield upon his back before picking up the limp body of Mira Eamon. Rumford couldn’t conceal his disgust.

“What are you doing?”

“She was his wife,” Galadrius said. “She deserves a better burial than being left to rot. They all do. Bring your cart around.”

“Good thinking,” Rumford mumbled, though he clutched his handkerchief a bit tighter to his face as he left.

* * *

The freezing rain that had recently threatened New Tristram held off, and Rumford gave thanks for small miracles – miracles had been in short supply as of late. As night fell, he and his guards hauled wood from their dry stores to create the funeral pyre just outside of town.

“These were your brothers in arms, men; put your backs into it!” Rumford shouted, dropping his own load of wood and going back for more. No one could say he didn’t work just as hard as his men. Galadrius watched him with interest. How easily Rumford had assumed the mantle of authority that had been thrust upon him. As uncertain as he was, and in spite of the quiet fears he confided in Galadrius when they were alone, Rumford had accepted the sword in his hand and become the warrior he never thought he could be.

When the pyre had been set, Rumford came to stand at his side, a solid presence in his militia plate. The flames threw his features into sharp relief.

“I’m surprised you stayed for this,” Rumford said quietly. “You don’t owe them anything, you know, and surely you’ve got more important things to be getting on with.”

“The crusade goes on,” Galadrius agreed. “But we must honor our dead."

“I meant to thank you,” Rumford said. “Haedrig and I would have been lost without you. You cannot put a sword in a man’s hand and call him a warrior.”

Galadrius nodded thoughtfully. “Picking up a sword is a beginning. I could show you more, if you wish.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

They stood in stoic silence for some time, the only sound that of the crackling fire and widows weeping. Rumford’s heart had never felt so heavy.

“Before he died, Deckard Cain’s last words to me were ‘Leoric’s crown,’” Galadrius said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Well, yeah,” Rumford said. “Decades ago, King Leoric went mad. Nearly destroyed Tristram. The town rebuilt from the ashes. But all I really know about the Skeleton King is from rumors and legend. You want the real story, you’ll have to ask Haedrig.”

“Haedrig?” Galadrius looked to his left, where the blacksmith knelt before his wife’s pyre.

“His grandfather was King Leoric’s chancellor,” Rumford said. “If anyone knows anything about the crown, it’ll be Haedrig.”

“I see,” Galadrius said. He looked around at the guards that surrounded the fires, paying their respects and protecting them from any undead who should be drawn by the flames. “Captain, if your men are here, who is at the gate?”

“Leah, of all people,” Rumford said, shaking his head. “She’s been up all day caring for the wounded in Mira Eamon’s stead, and now she’s practically begged me to take the night watch. I don’t know what’s driving that girl.”

“Grief,” Galadrius said.

Rumford stared into the flames as they consumed the dead, leaving nothing but smoke and dust. That's all any of them were in the end. “I suppose grief is what’s driving us all.”


	4. Portrait of a Crusader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is actually a poem called “The Portrait of a Warrior” by Walter de la Mare.

The Slaughtered Calf held a subdued air late into the evening, though a traveling musician had set up in the corner in an effort to lighten the townspeople’s dark mood. Rumford and Galadrius accepted their mugs of ale with thanks. They watched the young lutist for a while, his long fingers delicately plucking the strings to accompany his mellow voice.

“How did you come to be a crusader?” Rumford asked. “Seems less a profession and more a death sentence.”

“I was called, and I answered,” Galadrius said.

Rumford snorted. “Come on,” he said. “I’m the best friend you’ve got in this town; I deserve more than that.”

Galadrius regarded him like a bird of prey, eyes glittering in the firelight. Rumford felt the prickling unease return, the feeling that haunted him around both Galadrius and the stranger, but he did his best to hold the crusader’s gaze.

“I suppose you do,” Galadrius said thoughtfully. He set down his tankard and leaned in. “Forgive me. In my line of work, friends are few and far between. But it’s not a very interesting tale, I’m afraid. My parents died when I was very young. I was raised by the church, as many orphans are. I took my vows at twelve, pledging myself to my master in the Zakarum faith.”

“Your master?”

“Every crusader is trained by a mentor, of sorts. He taught me the tenets of our faith and how to follow them, how to fight, how to live, and how to die.”

“Seems to me most men don’t need help learning how to die; they just die.”

“Ah, but to die for a cause, that is another thing entirely. My master knew this well. He died when I was sixteen.” A shadow passed over his face. The memory pained him still.

Rumford laid a hand on the crusader’s forearm. He didn't know what to say, but it seemed to be enough. Galadrius looked down with a brief, strange smile that wasn't meant for him and vanished as quickly as it had come.

“I still keep a token to remember him by.” Galadrius continued. He tapped the pommel of his sword, adorned with a small ruby. “His memory gave me the strength I needed to go on. Since then, I’ve journeyed many places, called to help in whatever way I can, as I continue to seek out and destroy the corruption that has plagued the Zakarum for decades.”

Rumford realized his mouth was hanging open, and hastily took a sip of ale to cover it. “And that quest brought you . . . here? To New Tristram?”

“The star,” Galadrius said. “I heard tell of a fallen star, and came west to seek it.”

“Seems to me like finding the star didn’t answer any questions, just brought up new ones.”

Galadrius smiled. “Sometimes questions are the answer, my friend.”

Rumford dipped his fingers into his tankard and flicked ale at Galadrius. “I really hate it when you do that.”

“That was childish,” Galadrius said, but he was still smiling. “Do what?”

“Get all mystical and wise,” grumbled Rumford. “Makes the rest of us look bad. Don’t!” he warned, pointing at the crusader, who had opened his mouth to reply. “Don’t say it. Whatever it was, it’ll only prove my point.”

They were quiet for a bit, listening to the crackle of the fire as it mingled with the bard’s melancholy voice.

"I know this one," said Rumford in a low voice. "'Bartuc and Horazon,' it's called. My father used to sing it while he worked the fields. Could make a grown man cry, it could." The song came to a close, and one of the nearby patrons leaned back in his chair to flick a coin into the musician’s lute case. The musician accepted the money and applause by whipping off his feathered cap and sinking into a bow.

“My next song is one I penned myself. I do hope you’ll like it. It’s called, ‘The Crusader.’” He plucked a few introductory measures. Rumford punched Galadrius lightly on the arm.

“A song about you!” he hissed. Galadrius shook his head, but he, too, was curious to hear what the musician had to say about he and his ilk. The melody had a driving chord progression, filled with hope.

 _“His brow is seamed with line and scar;_  
_His cheek is red and dark as wine;_  
_The fires as of a Northern star_  
_Beneath his cap of sable shine._

 _His right hand, bared of leathern glove,_  
_Hangs open like an iron gin,_  
_You stoop to see his pulses move,_  
_To hear the blood sweep out and in._

 _He looks some king, so solitary_  
_In earnest thought he seems to stand,_  
_As if across a lonely sea_  
_He gazed impatient of the land._

 _Out of the noisy centuries_  
_The foolish and the fearful fade;_  
_Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,_  
_Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.”_

The musician finished with a long flourish. Rumford clapped and whooped his appreciation as the young man set down his lute to take a short break.

Galadrius, on the other hand, looked pensive as he finished his ale.

“Hey, what’s got you so quiet? Well, quieter than usual,” Rumford amended. “This one’s the best we’ve had in years. In tune and not a shoddy songwriter, to boot.”

“Is that really how people see crusaders?” Galadrius asked. “Is that how you see me?”

Rumford shrugged. “You’ve got to understand, most of us have never even seen a real crusader,” he said. “I’d heard only tales, before I met you. In the stories, why, you’re heroes, gods: invincible, larger than life.” He paused. “Maybe there’s more truth to them than you think.”

“I did not come to be a hero. I came to root out evil and destroy it. I came to seek out and save the lost. I came because the crusade asked it of me.”

“And I am captain of the guard because there was no one else,” Rumford said. “Sometimes we do what we must, because we must. Let them believe what they will. We know who we are; we are men of action. They are just children listening to tales.”

Galadrius stared at him.

“Oh, there you go with the eyes again. Have I got food on my face?”

Galadrius chuckled. “You surprise me constantly, Captain. I’m glad to call you a friend.”

“Yeah, yeah. If you’re so glad, you’ll get me another ale. What do you say?”

* * *

The musician had long packed up his lute and retired for the evening, his belly and his purse full. The townspeople shuffled out, yawning, preparing to wake at dawn for another day of work. Soon the crusader and the guard-captain were the only two left in the common room.

“Oy, pub’s closed for the night. You’ll show yourself up to your room and blow out the light when you’re finished, yes?” the barkeep said.

“Don’t worry, Bron, we’ll be no trouble,” Rumford assured him.

He eyed Rumford coolly. “It’s not him I’m worried about. I remember you as a boy, Rumford; and don’t think I don’t know where my cask of Nymyrian mead walked off to when you were thirteen.”

“That was fifteen years ago!” Rumford protested.

“Keep an eye on him, aye?” Bron said to Galadrius.

“Certainly,” Galadrius replied. His eyebrow twitched at Rumford. “Nymyrian mead?”

“An embarrassing tale, to be sure,” Rumford said, his face red. “Haedrig and I sneaked the cask out and brought it back to my father’s farm. It was shortly after Haedrig moved here from Caldeum, his fifteenth birthday, and he hadn’t drunk anything but cheap ale before. We planned to drink it all, but one of the horses was foaling that day, and my father dragged us off to help him instead. We hid the cask in the pig sty. By the time we came back to it, the pigs had gotten to it. Drunk as, well, pigs, the lot of them. I’ve still got scars on my backside from the whuppin’ my father gave me.”

Galadrius chuckled at the tale. “It sounds like the two of you were quite the handful.”

“Ah, but to be young and foolish again,” Rumford said wistfully. He stared into his ale for a moment, remembering sweeter times. He cleared his throat. “So, Leoric’s crown, eh?”

“Yes,” Galadrius said, draining the last of his ale. “I’ve yet to speak with Haedrig about its whereabouts, though it will be a few days before we can set out again.”

“We?”

“The stranger,” Galadrius said. “He’s still healing from his wounds. He believes accompanying me to find the crown may stimulate his memory, and I agree. He has proven to be a valuable ally in battle, as well.”

“I don’t trust him,” Rumford said. He didn’t regret the thought, but his words may have been hasty.

Galadrius was quiet. “Why not?”

Rumford stared at him, but as always, he couldn’t get a read on what the crusader was thinking. “I dunno. Just a feeling. He’s not what he seems.”

“No one is what they seem, Captain.”

“You know what I mean.” Rumford sighed and looked away.

“Would you rather I go alone, then?”

“No, of course not.” Rumford sighed. ”How do you do it? How can you continue to wade into the fray with nary a thought for your own safety?”

Galadrius met his eyes calmly. “I am a crusader.”

“Right,” Rumford said flatly. “You’re well on your way to getting yourself killed. I just wish you’d acknowledge that, some days.”

“I’ve understood the fragility of life since I was a child. I shouldered that burden long ago. With respect, Captain – look to your own struggle, not mine.” His voice was edged with steel, though his eyes were kind. Rumford tamped down his frustration, bubbling under the surface.

He stood up abruptly. “It’s late, and I’m on early watch tomorrow. I should go.”

He thought he heard a kind of pause before Galadrius spoke, but he couldn't say what it meant. He wondered if it meant anything at all. “Sleep well, Captain.”

Rumford didn’t respond as he stalked out. The barracks would likely be full to bursting with snoring guards, and he was far too keyed up to sleep after the day he’d had. His feet took him to Haedrig’s house instead. The smith answered before he could even knock, dark circles under his eyes and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Thought you could use some company,” Rumford said heavily. “Truth is, I could use some company too. Or at least, the kind that doesn't speak in riddles all the time, and isn’t as stubborn as a smith’s hammer – no offense.”

Haedrig beckoned him inside with the whiskey bottle. He moved slowly, like a man decades older than he was, and though his physical strength was unmatched in New Tristram, right now he seemed like chaff that the wind could blow away at any moment. Rumford felt a little guilty he had left his friend alone in his time of need.

"I don't know what to say," Rumford said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I'm sorry. Mira was a good woman."

Haedrig nodded, sinking heavily into the chair across from his friend. "That she was." He stared into the fire, his eyes bleak. "I'll have your blades ready 'fore the week is out, Andrew."

Rumford waved him off. "Don't think of that right now."

"Then what have yeh come to talk about? Please, Andrew . . . If yeh're not goin' to distract me, then leave me to my pain."

Rumford cast wildly about for a topic. "Alright, then," he said. "Tell me about the Skeleton King."

Haedrig turned an incredulous eye toward his friend. "Me wife just died, and yeh want to talk about him?"

"You said you wanted me to distract you," Rumford pointed out.

Haedrig sighed, drained the whiskey bottle, and set it down with a hard thunk. "Me grandfather was King Leoric's chancellor."

"What exactly is a chancellor?"

"Eh, I'm not sure anyone knows for sure. Advisor to the king, mostly, but by the time Leoric went mad, he was taking all his advice from the Archbishop Lazarus, who was already bosom friends with Diablo. A right old mess, I’m told.

“When Leoric’s knight Lachdanan defied him, the crown was entrusted to my grandfather. He was buried with it, deep in the crypts of the Weeping Hollow.” He met Rumford’s eyes. “I hear yer new friend is looking for it.”

“How –?”

“Word travels fast in this old town,” Haedrig said with a wry smile. “He’s a good sort, that crusader. I owe him a debt of gratitude for what he did in the cellar, and you as well. Had I gone in there alone, I would have died by her hand, and smiled while she did it.”

“No one blames you for what happened,” Rumford said.

Haedrig looked away. “Tell yer friend to keep an eye out for me fool apprentice while he’s out there. If he finds him, tell him to get his arse back to town. There’s still work to be done.”


	5. Be Still

In the morning, Galadrius found the stranger in the common room of the Slaughtered Calf.

“You slept well?” the stranger inquired.

“As well as I could,” Galadrius replied.

“The pull is stronger now.  I feel it in my marrow.”

“A trait that should serve us well.”

They broke their fast with a meal of fried potatoes, goat cheese, and smoked trout, knowing it might be the most hearty fare they would enjoy for some time.

Captain Rumford was at the north gate as they set off, his posture rigid, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword with a familiarity he had formerly only displayed with a plow in his hand.  Galadrius’ sharp gaze missed nothing.  Neither man had forgotten the manner in which they had parted the evening before.  At first it seemed Rumford would ignore their passing completely, even after the crusader came to stand beside him. The stranger stood a respectful distance away, sensing that the conversation to follow was not for his ears.

“I know you’re angry with me,” Galadrius said, “but this is what I must do.”

The muscles in Rumford’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.  Together they surveyed the rolling fields, shrouded in an eerie mist.

“There is a certain beauty in the stillness,” Galadrius commented.

“I wish you could have seen the fields before,” Rumford said, his voice strained with melancholy. “Waves of wheat shimmering in the wind. Straight rows of squash and beans. Berry shrubs and rhubarb bordering the farmhouses. In late summer we’d let the corn grow as tall as a man, and the children would get lost in it for hours, wandering home at dusk with sunflower shells and corn silk stuck in their teeth.  That is what’s been taken from us.” He looked to his friend, and Galadrius saw the loss in his eyes.  “Kill some of those bastards for me, will you?”

“Gladly."

The crusader gripped his shoulder briefly.  Even through his stiff leather pauldrons, Rumford could feel its weight and drew comfort from it.

Galadrius took his leave, and the stranger fell into step beside him.  The stranger turned his eyes briefly on Rumford, irises blue as starfire, before he looked away. The guard captain shivered.  Though he was not yet thirty, he felt decades older.  Life was short and precious. The moments he had would never come again. The thought put his petty emotions in perspective.

“Galadrius,” Rumford called after him.  “If you find Haedrig’s apprentice out there, bring him home, alright?  If I can lessen his burden, I’ll count it a victory.”

The crusader nodded.  “You’re a good friend, Captain.”

* * *

Rumford kept busy after the departure of the crusader and the stranger.  Each time he thought he was getting the hang of being captain, a new challenge would arise. This time, it was his men themselves.  With tempers running high, and the stress of constant vigilance wearing down their nerves, it took only the tiniest provocation to send them over the edge.  One such incident happened in the barracks.  Noticing that Hamish and Larch were overdue for their duty shift at the gate, Rumford headed to the barracks to investigate and found the two bellowing at each other across the bunkhouse, with a good third of their fellow guards as witnesses.

“Guardsmen!” Rumford shouted, to get their attention.  He glanced around at their audience, who had the grace to look somewhat abashed.  “You all have someplace to be. The man who is not on his way to his post in ten seconds will be docked pay and cleaning latrines for the rest of his tour of service. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ser!”

There was the noisy shuffling of armor and boots as everyone, including Hamish and Larch, scrambled to get out of the barracks in time.  Rumford pointed at the two. “Not you.”

Rumford wondered if this was what parenting felt like, as the two younger men took a seat on a bunk beside each other.  The tension between them was palpable.

Rumford stood across from them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword to show he meant business (and to steady the shaking of his hands, but they didn’t need to know that).  He let out a long-suffering sigh and gathered his thoughts.

“Whatever Captain Daltyn may have allowed, you are under my command now.”  Rumford turned his gaze on Hamish. “What is the meaning of this?”

Hamish said nothing and looked away.

“You will look at your captain and speak when he asks it of you!” Rumford’s voice cut as sharp as tempered steel. “I will ask again: what is the meaning of this?”

Larch looked sullen. “It's nothin’, Captain. Won't happen again.”

Rumford sighed.  “Don’t you understand?  You’ve faced an enemy that’s the stuff of nightmares, and yet by some miracle, you’re still alive.  You’ve lost friends, loved ones, brothers in arms – we all have.  And more fall victim by the hour.  Whatever quarrels you have, they pale in comparison to that.”  Rumford glanced between them.  “You’ll be on latrine duty for a fortnight each.  Now, to the gate with you both; you're late enough already.”

“Yes, Captain,” they muttered, and filed out.

Rumford let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and sagged against a bunk post to steady himself.  He faced evil at the gates each day, had seen his entire squadron slaughtered before his eyes, and lost his family and the farm he loved, all in the past few months. Why, then, did commanding his men undo him so?  

He wished, not for the first time, that Galadrius was here. He'd have some insight that Rumford didn't and reassure him that he was on the right path, as the crusader himself was so sure of his own. Rumford wondered how long he'd be gone this time, or if he'd return at all. Rumford pushed that thought away – he wasn't quite comfortable with the spike of fear that accompanied it.

His doubts continued to plague him daily, but he had no time for them.  As Haedrig had said, there was still work to be done.  Instead, Rumford squared his shoulders and left the barracks with his head held high.

* * *

As winter approached, it brought cold and driving rain that turned to sleet, icing the trees and roofs of New Tristram like delicate glass sculptures.  Even so, the town looked somewhat menacing when the structures glittered by the light of the moon.

The temperatures dropped, and so did Rumford’s men.  A pernicious wave of sickness swept through the barracks and laid up the guards with chills, fever, and a wet hacking cough.

By some miracle, Rumford himself avoided coming down with it, and pulled long days to fill the shifts left open by the sick.  It was no more than he had been doing – it seemed there was always a shortage of able men. Rumford felt duty-bound to help out where he could.  A fortnight and a day after the crusader’s departure (not that he was counting, of course), Rumford spotted a lantern bobbing through the fog to the northeast.

“To arms!” he said, by force of habit, but there was no answer other than the icy pelt of the rain against his armor.  With so many guards taken ill, Rumford had cut down the minimum at the gate from two to one – he was New Tristram’s last line of defense.  Rumford drew his sword and swept his cloak back, rain sluicing off the hem.  It would have to be enough.

Rumford watched the lantern sway as a pair of horses and a carriage loomed up from the mist.  

“Hold and state your business in New Tristram,” he called.

The carriage creaked to a halt, and Rumford approached with care.  The horses were as pale as the white sands of Caldeum.  One horse tossed its sodden mane and pawed at the mud. Even under the muck Rumford could see its hooves had been painted gold.  The carriage itself was as lavish and flamboyant as the passengers it carried.  Rumford glimpsed the inside as one door opened a crack.  The interior was draped with vividly colored silks: forest green, indigo, magenta, burnt sienna.  Two passengers, a man and a woman, reclined inside amidst tasseled pillows that had been artfully arranged with an air of careless ease.  The man was rail-thin with dark, greedy eyes – Rumford disliked him at once. The plump, well-endowed woman extended one hand in greeting. Gaudy rings adorned each finger.

“Andrew Rumford, captain of the guard.” He knew his voice was clipped, but his temper was short and he couldn't afford any mistakes when it came to the safety of the township he was tasked with protecting.  “State your business or begone.”

“Oh my heavens, Shen, what an inauspicious welcome,” the woman purred to her companion.

Shen gave Rumford a greasy smile, and Rumford liked him even less than before. “You must forgive Myriam, Captain,” he said in a reedy voice. “I am merely a simple merchant, come to ply my wares.”

Rumford didn't believe for a second that Shen was a simple anything.  He turned to Myriam.

“And you?”

“Why, my dear Captain,” Myriam said, “I see what others cannot, or will not.”

 _Oh gods, a mystic,_ Rumford groaned inwardly.  “And what do you see?”

She gave him a piercing look.  “A man with doubts.”

Rumford snorted.  “Show me a man who _hasn’t_ got doubts.”

“I believe you already know such a man,” Myriam said.  Her eyes lost focus and she frowned.  “Oh . . . no, perhaps you don’t.”

This was why Rumford disliked mystics.  Always talking in circles, spouting riddles, and imbuing their words with false meaning to make themselves seem important.

Myriam grinned suddenly, the sort of half-cocked smile one saw on the faces of kittens and madmen. “In due time, Captain.  Now, shall we?”

Rumford sighed and moved to unbar the gate.  However much she pained him, he got some satisfaction from imagining Galadrius’ face upon meeting Myriam.

* * *

Rumford was lost in thought as he trudged back to the barracks after a long shift days later – worried about his men, Galadrius, his own fate.

A hand caught his sleeve.  Brightly-lacquered nails, crusted with tiny flawless gemstones, scraped against his bracer.  The mystic.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred.  “You’re made of stronger stuff than that.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rumford said.

“Come in for a cup of tea,” she said.

Rumford protested.  “I really don’t have the time –”

“Then we shall make the time,” she said, in a tone that brooked no room for argument. Even so, Rumford considered pushing the issue.

“You will sit down,” she said once they were inside her tent, gently but firmly pushing him into a richly upholstered settee.  Before he even realized it, she was pressing a cup of tea into his hand.  The sting of the hot porcelain against his hand grounded him.  He could feel the tension seeping from his mind, through his fingers, into the liquid.  Myriam watched him intently until he had emptied his cup.  Her gold bangles clinked together softly as she adjusted her shawl.

Rumford felt comfortably drowsy, and he didn’t resist when Myriam reached over and gently plucked the teacup from his slack fingers.  She swirled the cup in her hands slowly, then upturned it over the saucer.

“I don’t put much stock in this sort of thing, you know,” Rumford said.  “Nonsense and bollocks.  No offense.”

Myriam just smiled.  “Men always fear what they do not understand.”

Rumford meant to protest that he understood just fine, but he couldn’t muster up the energy.

Myriam picked up his cup once more and studied the tea leaves on the bottom.  Her heavily shaded eyebrows knit together.  “Oh dear.”

This pronouncement brought Rumford out of his funk.  “What?  What is it?”

“The Dagger,” she whispered.  Rumford wasn’t sure if he imagined the capital D, but he felt the unease creep in, hitching between his shoulder blades.  “A warning. Danger.”

“What else does it say?” he said, leaning forward, trying to peer into the cup himself.

“A letter G.  What or whom does that bring to mind?”

“Galadrius,” Rumford said, his breath catching in his throat.

“Ah, the crusader, no?”

Rumford nodded.  “Is he in danger?”   _Stupid question._  Galadrius was always in danger, and more often than not, he put himself there.

Myriam frowned.  “I am unsure.  A bridge.  Life-changing.”

_Well, the crusader was certainly that._

“But what does it _mean_?” Rumford demanded.

Myriam grinned like a cat in the cream.  “Why, captain, I thought this was all mere hokum to you.”

Rumford groaned.

Myriam leaned forward and put a comforting hand on his knee.  “Tasseomancy is an art, dearie.  Not a craft.  My aura grants me flashes of the truth, but the future is as changeable as a stream.  Perhaps nothing we have discussed here shall come to pass – or perhaps everything will.  Until then . . . tread carefully.”

Rumford left her tent, more confused and tense than before.  It irritated him he was taking this so seriously – gods above, how he _hated_ mystics!  All the same, Rumford spared a thought for Galadrius, colored by Myriam’s warning, and fervently wished for him to come home safely.


	6. Mayor's Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the year-long delay . . . I'm not sure if anyone else still reads this, but hopefully it won't take as long for the next chapter!

Rumford made a point to drop in on Haedrig every few days, if only to make sure the man hadn't dived headfirst into the bottle following Mira’s death.  Haedrig, for the most part, welcomed the visits.  Their visits grounded Rumford too.  Between his worry for the absent crusader and the increasing stress of his job, Rumford sometimes thought he might be crushed under the weight of all that was expected of him.  Often they didn't speak of the present—instead they shared a finger or two of whiskey and reminisced about better days.

But today was not one of those days.

“How is life treating yeh?”

Rumford couldn't hold in the heavy sigh that escaped him.  “I'm at the end of my rope, if I'm honest about it,” he said. “My men are at each other's throats, the dead are still turning, and now the khazra have overrun the fields.  And the crusader—” Rumford broke off and looked down at his boots. “Well, who the hell knows about him.”

“He is your friend,” Haedrig said.

It seemed too small a word, somehow.

“ _You're_ my friend,” Rumford said. “I always know where I stand with you. Not so with him. The mere thought of him ties up my insides like a sailor’s knot.  He’s . . .”  Rumford struggled to put his thoughts into words.  “Frustrating.  But I didn't come here to talk about him.”

Haedrig shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”

“How are you holding up, then?”

“I need something more than repairing spades to occupy my mind,” Haedrig said.

“Well, I know what Galadrius would say,” Rumford said with a sly smile.  He affected a deep voice, barely recognizable as an impression of the crusader.  “‘Join the crusade.  The work is hard, the rewards few, and you’ll likely die.’”

Haedrig laughed. “Sounds meaningful. And awful.”

“But everyone you meet will think you're mysterious and wildly interesting,” Rumford quipped.

Haedrig raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps just you, my friend.”

Rumford’s neck felt hot.  He coughed. “I should go,” he said.

“Andrew,” Haedrig said, and Rumford paused with his hand on the doorknob.  He could almost see a shadow of Mira in Haedrig’s eyes.  “Life is short. Don't wait too long.”

* * *

He didn’t forget about the crusader, exactly, but neither did he wait upon the blacksmith’s words.  Rumford had been fine before Galadrius showed up in New Tristram, and he would be fine when the crusader left again.  It was a hollow sentiment that took up residence in his heart, next to where his fondest memories lived—like the glow of sunrise over fields of barley, or Galadrius’ rare smile.

It was raining, again, which put out the newest fires set by the khazra on the outskirts of town.  It was almost what passed for a blessing in New Tristram.

Rumford burst into the forge without a greeting, sweeping his sodden fringe off his forehead.  “Haedrig, I need reinforced planks for the rear gate, _yesterday!_ ” he called.  “Larch just sent a runner.  The damn khazra kicked down the gate and if we replace it with the standard planks they’ll just burn it down.”

Haedrig came from the back, stripping off his hide gloves, but his gaze slid from Rumford’s face to something behind him.

“Shall I return at a more convenient time?”

Rumford whirled around.  “Galadrius!”  He saw his own relief mirrored on the crusader’s face, along with an emotion he couldn't name.  Maybe it was joy, or something like it that he hadn't felt in so long he’d forgotten how to recognize it.

Galadrius shifted his attention to Haedrig.  In his hand he held a thin circlet of braided bronze with several bent prongs.

Haedrig chuckled in disbelief.  “You found the crown.  Truth be told, I didn’t think yeh’d make it back alive.”

Rumford’s voice was charged with affection. “He’s as tough as he looks.”

Haedrig examined the crown, turning it over in his calloused hands.  “It’s a bit banged up, but I can fix that.  Hold on.”  He disappeared into the back.  They heard the metallic _ching_ of a hammer.

“It’s good to see you alive and well,” Rumford said when they were alone.

Galadrius looked over at him and frowned. “You've lost weight.”

“You're one to talk,” Rumford retorted. “Look at you; did you even think to bring rations?”

Galadrius stared at him.  A slow smile spread over his face that warmed the already stifling room.  “It is good to see you too, my friend.”  

The crusader’s gaze lingered on Rumford, burning into his eyes and scorching his soul.  A flush rose up Rumford’s neck that he hoped would escape Galadrius’ notice.  

Haedrig cleared his throat upon his return, breaking the silence between them.

“I’ve repaired the crown as best I can,” he said, glancing between the two men.  He raised one bushy eyebrow at Rumford before addressing Galadrius.  “Yeh’ll need to take this to King Leoric’s crypt and place it upon his tomb to complete the ritual.”  The crown changed hands.  Haedrig sighed heavily and shook his head.  “I sure hope yeh know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“I ought to get back to the rear gate,” Rumford said.  “Larch is out there repairing it—those blasted goat-men knocked it down during the last incursion.  I couldn’t spare anyone else, so he’s out there alone.  I’ll be back for the reinforced boards tomorrow.  Pub later, Galadrius?  I’d like to hear what you found.”

Galadrius nodded.  “I look forward to it.”

Rumford paused at the door, looking out into the pouring rain before making a run for it. The crusader watched him until the door swung shut and obscured his view.

“I have grim news,” Galadrius said to Haedrig.  “Your apprentice has fallen.”

“Fool boy,” Haedrig said.  “He never listened, but he was a good lad.”

“I found this on his person.” He handed the smith an amulet and a few other personal belongings. “I thought his kin might wish to have it.”

“He had no kin,” Haedrig said, closing his palm around the misshapen iron charm, its leather thing dangling between his fingers. “He made this the first day of his apprenticeship with me. Never took it off.”

“Then you were the closest kin he had,” Galadrius said quietly. “You must remember him, then, as he was—else no one will.”

“Did yeh leave him out there with those mongrels?”

“The stranger and I gave him a proper burial.  He is at peace.”

“Do yeh truly believe that?” Haedrig wasn't looking at him. His palm was open; he studied the charm in his hand.

“I must,” Galadrius said, “else my faith is dead.”

“Thank you,” the smith said finally. “I’d like to be left alone now, if yeh please.”

Galadrius bowed his head briefly and turned to go.  Haedrig caught his arm.

Galadrius’ expression was mild.  “Yes?”

“Do yeh know what it is to fall in love?”

Haedrig had never thought to see the crusader struck speechless.  The other man blinked at him.  

“A crusader loves his faith, his shield, and his cause.”

“A pity,” Haedrig said.  “None of those can love yeh back.”

Galadrius stared at him. He had the oddest impression that Haedrig was angry with him. “Have I offended you?”

Haedrig leaned heavily on his sledge, fixing his grey eyes on Galadrius.  “Yeh protect the weak, no?”

The crusader nodded, once.

“Right,” Haedrig said.  “Word to the wise: some men are more fragile than the strength of their bodies.  Now get out of me forge—I’ve got work to do.”

* * *

“Alright there, Larch?” Rumford called over the rain.

“A’ight, Captain!  I managed to patch some of the broken pieces together, but they won't hold for long. Luckily they're soaked, so if they want to destroy them they’ll have to kick it down. Torching them won't work.”

“Small miracles, eh?  Let’s see then.”  Rumford checked the haphazard fix Larch had cobbled together with little more than a hammer and a handful of nails.  He found several loose and cracked planks that wouldn’t hold up to a well-placed blow, but would hopefully serve until the proper repairs could be made.  “Not bad.  Any sightings since the last attack?”

“A few scouts with bows, but they didn’t fire and stayed well away from the gate.  It’s almost like they’re waiting for they cavalry.”

“Gods, I hope not,” Rumford groaned.  “Maybe they’re waiting for us to make a move.  Setting up an ambush.”

“As far as I’m concerned, they can sit out there and get rained on all night long,” Larch said viciously.  “Get the damp up in their lungs and die, slow and painful-like.”

“Who’s to relieve you?”

“Eaton, but I ain’t seen him yet,” Larch said.  “He was s’posed to be here mid-shift to help me with the gate.”

They shared a resigned look.  It wouldn't be the first time the drink had gotten the better of Eaton.  Rumford sighed.  “I’ll check the barracks.”

The barracks was empty, not unusual for this time of night.

“Eaton?” Rumford called.  He checked the roster posted near his office and frowned.  Half a dozen names had been crossed off, including Eaton’s.  The ink slashed across the parchment, deep and angry.  His eyes found Eaton’s bunk.  The soiled linens had been shucked off the lumpy straw mattress, bunched and abandoned on top of it.

The door of the barracks opened behind him.  Rumford spun around.

“Hamish, thank the gods,” Rumford said.  “What’s the meaning of this?”  He pointed to the roster.

“Cap’n, I swear to ye upon me mother’s grave, I had nothing to do wit’ it,” Hamish said, eyes wide.

“What?  What is it?”

“He offered us money,” Hamish said.  “I told ‘im all the coin in Caldeum wouldn’t keep my fam’ly safe and he could shove it up ‘is arse.”

“Who?” Rumford demanded.

“Mayor Holus,” Hamish said, and spat.  “Up and left like the coward he is.  Took the weakest among us with ‘im.”  He jabbed a finger at the roster.

“They’re gone?” Rumford said.  It hit him like a blow to the gut.   _Gone?_  What was he supposed to do now?

“Don’t worry, Cap’n,” Hamish said.  “I’m still here.  Those of us left, we’re with you.”

Still reeling, Rumford clutched Hamish’s shoulder briefly in thanks before brushing past the guardsman, back out into the dark rain.

Larch had taken shelter in the archer post over the repaired gate.  He peered down as Rumford approached.  “Eaton?” he asked.

Rumford shook his head.  “Go home, Larch.  I’ll take the night watch.”

“But Captain—”

“That’s an order, guardsman.”

Larch hesitated, then clambered down.  He didn’t comply out of meek obedience, but loyalty.  “Thanks, Captain.”

Rumford smiled faintly, already scanning the horizon for the threat of khazra or undead  “I expect you back at dawn.  Sleep well.” 

* * *

Rumford stepped into the Slaughtered Calf the following evening and felt his dark mood deepen.  Had it truly been only two days since he last set foot inside?  The usual evening crowd was missing by half, and those few familiar souls still parked on their worn stools hunched over their drinks, shoulders curled inwards as if to protect themselves from the cruelty of the world.  An undercurrent of subdued conversation buzzed, nothing like the raucous laughter and bawdy songs that had once filled the air.  Perhaps their cowardly mayor had had the right idea, Rumford thought.  But he himself could never leave; New Tristram was home, no matter how bleak the future seemed.  His eyes found the single beacon of light in the room, and his heart lifted.  He took the seat across from the crusader.

“Captain,” Galadrius greeted him warmly.  “Your absence was noted yesterday.  It’s good to see you well.”

“As well as can be expected,” Rumford said heavily, signaling the barmaid for a beer.  When she set the mug before him it seemed thicker and darker than usual, like an ominous thundercloud threatening a storm to come.

“What troubles you?”

Rumford sighed. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Galadrius said, “but it troubles you all the same.”

Something about the crusader had always invited his confidence, and tonight was no different. “When I became captain of the guard, my peers agreed I was the best man for the job.  But what if they were wrong?”

“They saw the greatness in you that I have seen since the day we met,” Galadrius said.  “They were not wrong.”

Rumford set his mug down a bit harder than he intended.  “And what do you know about it?  We are fighting a war we have no hope of winning, and I am the one who leads them to their deaths.  Every choice I make these days feels like the wrong one.  Sometimes I wonder if it was good or bad fortune that saved me.  Good men perished that day, and in the days since—better men than me.”

The crusader studied him. “Something happened since last I saw you.”

Rumford looked away.  He wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing. For gods’ sakes, he still saw himself as just a farmer.  Yet Galadrius seemed sure there was much more to him than that.  What did the crusader see in him?

“There's just so much death and fear all around us, inside us, all the time, you know?  When will it end?”

“This world holds pain and death and evil; this much I know is true,” Galadrius agreed. “But there is also much to be grateful for.  Love.  Hope.  A hot meal and an ale.”  He leaned in. “Tell me what's happened. Perhaps I can help you set it right.”

Rumford shook his head bitterly.  “Mayor Holus turned tail and ran last night. Sneaked out under cover of darkness with a group of townies.”

“Cowards, all.”

“No,” Rumford said at once. “I can't judge them too harshly for leaving—I might have done, once.  But now, as guard-captain . . . I can't leave my men here to fight and die alone. Wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

To Rumford’s bewilderment, Galadrius grinned. “That quality alone makes you the right man for the job.”

It should have made Rumford feel better, and he knew it would eventually. But right now all he could think about was how heavy his heart felt.

“Listen, keep this under wraps—the last thing I need is a panic—but when the mayor left he took a third of my guards with him.  We’re down to single-man posts, now.  Fortunately I was able to schedule us out, make it work, but . . . it means I won’t be able to see you as often, like this.”

Galadrius frowned.  He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a commotion in the opposite corner of the common room drew their attention away.  

“You cannot see it, but I can!  A great fire, flames burning skin into charred black leather and melting the eyes of your children as they cry tears of blood!”  A woman shrieked, her lacquered nails leaving irritated furrows on her cheeks as she pulled at her face.  The rest of the patrons had gone quiet.  Myriam waved her hands around wildly, eyes wide, painted mouth gaping.

Bron set down the bottle of white liquor he’d been pouring.  “Hey!” he barked at her.  “Stop your caterwauling, lady.  You’re scaring my bar.”

“They _should_ be afraid!” Myriam cried.  “They sit upon a pit of ashes, and they will lick Diablo’s boots before the week is out!”

“That’s it,” Bron said, coming around the bar.  He gripped Myriam’s forearm and forced her out of the chair.  “Get outta my pub.”

She recoiled.  “Your face! ‘Tis the face of a demon!”

“My face is the last thing you should be worried about,” Bron said gruffly.  He gave her a shove out the door of the Calf.  “Come back when you’ve sobered up, eh?”

Bron closed the door in her face.  The rest of the pub stared in silence, until gradually the buzz of conversation started up again, and soon it was as if she had not darkened the Calf’s doorway at all.

“Captain, do you know that woman?” Galadrius said.

“That’s Myriam,” Rumford said in a low voice.  “She’s a mystic.  Blew into town a fortnight ago with this slimy little merchant, raving about doom and damnation.  Utter nonsense, of course,” he said lightly, as if trying to convince himself.  “She read my fortune, you know.  My tea leaves said you were in danger.”

“Oh?” Galadrius said, rubbing his chin.  A ghost of a smile played upon his lips.  “I do not need a mystic to tell me that.”

“I’d rather she kept her visions to herself,” Rumford said, shifting in his seat.  “She’s been putting all the townsfolk on edge.  It’s already hard enough to keep them calm with everything else going on; she’s only making things worse.”

As Myriam’s outburst faded into memory, Rumford’s mind returned to the thread of their conversation.  “Sorry, you were saying?”

But either the crusader had forgotten or thought better of his words. “It’s of no import now.”

Disappointed, Rumford looked away.  His thoughts were in such turmoil he nearly excused himself for the barracks.  He had a dozen tasks upon his desk he could—should—be doing.  But even Galadrius’ frustrating, silent presence was more comforting to him than solitude.  He put his list of tasks and troubles away in his mind, to be tackled and worried over later.

As for tonight—the company was good, his senses were pleasantly dulled by the ale, and he wouldn’t think on it until tomorrow.


End file.
